Can you see through the night, woman, that you stare so upon it? Man, what sparks do your eyes follow in the smouldering darkness?

You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow.

I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against the want of you; of squeezing it into little inkdrops, And posting it.

Art is the desire of a man to express himself, to record the reactions of his personality to the world he lives in.

I know that a creed is the shell of a lie.

Love is a game-yes? I think it is a drowning.

Happiness, to some, elation; Is, to others, mere stagnation.